"Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly.
"Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'm the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?"
"I'm miserable," replied the man.
"Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did ye git in here?"
"Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know; but it's terrible."
"Why, ye don't think ye're in hell, do ye?" inquired Jim.
"Don't you see?" inquired the wretch, looking around him.
"Oh, yes; I see! I guess you're right," said Jim, falling in with his fancy.
"But where did you come from, Jim? I never heard that you were dead."
"Yes; I'm jest as dead as you be."
"Well, what did you come here for?"
"Oh, I thought I'd call round," replied Jim carelessly.
"Did you come from Abraham's bosom?" inquired Mr. Benedict eagerly.
"Straight."
"I can't think why you should come to see me, into such a place as this!" said Benedict, wonderingly.
"Oh, I got kind o' oneasy. Don't have much to do over there, ye know."
"How did you get across the gulf?"
"I jest shoved over in a birch, an' ye must be perlite enough to return the call," replied Jim, in the most matter-of-course manner possible.
Benedict looked down upon his torn and wretched clothing, and then turned his pitiful eyes up to Jim, who saw the thoughts that were passing in the poor man's mind.
"Never mind your clo'es," he said. "I dress jest the same there as I did in Number Nine, and nobody says a word. The fact is, they don't mind very much about clo'es there, any way. I'll come over and git ye, ye know, an' interjuce ye, and ye shall have jest as good a time as Jim Fenton can give ye."
"Shall I take my rifle along?" inquired Benedict.
"Yes, an' plenty of amanition. There ain't no game to speak on—only a few pa'tridge; but we can shoot at a mark all day, ef we want to."
Benedict tottered to his feet and came to the grated door, with his eyes all alight with hope and expectation. "Jim, you always were a good fellow," said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I'll show you my improvements. Belcher mustn't get hold of them. He's after them. I hear him round nights, but he shan't have them. I've got a new tumbler, and—"
"Well, never mind now," replied Jim. "It'll be jest as well when ye come over to spend the day with me. Now ye look a here! Don't you say nothin' about this to nobody. They'll all want to go, and we can't have 'em. You an' I want to git red of the crowd, ye know. We allers did. So when I come arter ye, jest keep mum, and we'll have a high old time."
All the intellect that Benedict could exercise was summoned to comprehend this injunction. He nodded his head; he laid it up in his memory. Hope had touched him, and he had won at least a degree of momentary strength and steadiness from her gracious finger.
"Now jest lay down an' rest, an' keep your thoughts to yerself till I come agin. Don't tell nobody I've be'n here, and don't ask leave of nobody. I'll settle with the old boss if he makes any sort of a row; and ye know when Jim Fenton says he'll stand between ye and all harm he means it, an' nothin' else."
"Yes, Jim."
"An' when I come here—most likely in the night—I'll bring a robe to put on ye, and we'll go out still."
"Yes, Jim."
"Sure you understand?"
"Yes, Jim."
"Well, good-bye. Give us your hand. Here's hopin'."
Benedict held himself up by the slats of the door, while Jim went along to rejoin the Doctor. Outside of this door was still a solid one, which had been thrown wide open in the morning for the purpose of admitting the air. In this door Jim discovered a key, which he quietly placed in his pocket, and which he judged, by its size, was fitted to the lock of the inner as well as the outer door. He had already discovered that the door by which he entered the building was bolted upon the outside, the keeper doubtless supposing that no one would wish to enter so foul a place, and trusting thus to keep the inmates in durance.
"Well, Doctor," said Jim, "this sort o' thing is too many for me. I gi'en it up. It's very interestin', I s'pose, but my head begins to spin, an' it seems to me it's gettin' out of order. Do ye see my har, Doctor?" said he, exposing the heavy shock that crowned his head.
"Yes, I see it," replied the Doctor tartly. He thought he had shaken off his unpleasant visitor, and his return disturbed him.
"Well, Doctor, that has all riz sence I come in here."
"Are you sure?" inquired the Doctor, mollified in the presence of a fact that might prove to be of scientific interest.
"I'd jest combed it when you come this mornin'. D'ye ever see anythin' like that? How am I goin' to git it down?"
"Very singular," said the Doctor.
"Yes, an' look here! D'ye see the har on the back o' my hand? That stands up jest the same. Why, Doctor, I feel like a hedgehog! What am I goin' to do?"
"Why, this is really very interesting!" said the Doctor, taking out his note-book. "What is your name?"
"Jim Fenton."
"Age?"
"Thirty or forty—somewhere along there."
"H'm!" exclaimed the Doctor, writing out the whole reply. "Occupation?"
"M.D., three C's, double X., two I's."
"H'm! What do you do?"
"Trap, mostly."
"Religious?"
"When I'm skeered."
"Nativity?"
"Which?"
"What is your parentage? Where were you born?"
"Well, my father was an Englishman, my mother was a Scotchman, I was born in Ireland, raised in Canady, and have lived for ten year in Number Nine."
"How does your head feel now?"
"It feels as if every har was a pin. Do you s'pose it'll strike in?"
The Doctor looked him over as if he were a bullock, and went on with his statistics: "Weight, about two hundred pounds; height, six feet two; temperament, sanguine-bilious."
"Some time when you are in Sevenoaks," said the Doctor, slipping his pencil into its sheath in his note-book, and putting his book in his pocket, "come and see me."
"And stay all night?" inquired Jim, innocently.
"I'd like to see the case again," said Dr. Radcliffe, nodding. "I shall not detain you long. The matter has a certain scientific interest."
"Well,